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“Poor boy!” said Mrs. Marland.

“Charlie, dear,” called Lady Merceron, who had been talking comfortably to Mrs. Bushell in the shade, “come and hand the tea. I’m sure you must all want some. Millie, my dear, how hot you look!”

“She never will take any care of her complexion, complained Mrs. Bushell.

“Take care of your stom–your health–and your complexion will take care of itself,” observed Mr. Vansittart.

“Charlie! Where; is the boy?” called Lady Merceron again.

The boy was gone. He was flying as fast as his legs would take him to the Pool. Where was that cherished interview now? He could hope only for a few wretched minutes–hardly enough to say good-by once–before he must hustle–yes, positively hustle–Agatha out of sight. He had heard that abominable Sutton remark that they might as well start directly after tea.

He was breathless when he burst through the willows. But there he came to a sudden, a dead stop, and then drew back into shelter again. There on the bank, scarcely a dozen feet from it, sat two people–a. young man with his arm round a young woman’s waist. Willie Prime and Nettie Wallace, “by all that’s damnable!” as Sir Peter says! Charlie said something quite as forcible.

He felt for his watch, but he had left it with his waistcoat on the lawn. What was the time? Was it going quickly or slowly? Could he afford to wait, or must he run round to the road and intercept Agatha? Five minutes passed in vacillation.

“I’ll go and stop her,” he said, and began a cautious retreat. As he moved he heard Willie’s voice.

“Well, my dear, let’s be off,” said Willie.

Nettie rose with a sigh of content, adjusted her hat coquettishly, and smoothed her skirts.

“I’m ready, Willie. It’s been beautiful, hasn’t it?”

They came towards Charlie. Evidently they intended to regain the road by the same path as he had chosen. Indeed, from that side of the Pool there was no choice, unless one clambered round by the muddy bank.

“We must make haste,” said Willie. “Father’ll want his tea.”

If they made haste they would be close on his heels. Charlie shrank back behind a willow and let them go by; then, quick as thought, rushed to his canoe and paddled across–up the steps and into the temple he rushed. She wasn’t there! Fate is too hard for the best of us sometimes. Charlie sat down and, stretching out his legs, stared gloomily at his toes.

Thus he must have sat nearly ten minutes, when a head was put round the Corinthian pilaster of the doorway.

“Poor boy! Am I very late?”

Charlie leapt up and forward, breathlessly blurting out joy tempered by uneasiness.

Agatha gathered the difficulty of the position.

“Well,” said she, smiling, “I must disappear, and you must go back to your friends.”

“No,” said Charlie. “I must talk to you.”

“But they may come any moment.”

“I don’t care!”

“Oh, but I do. Charlie, what’s the matter? Oh, didn’t I ever call you ‘Charlie’ before? Well, Charlie, if you love me (yes, I know!) you’ll not let these people see me.”

“All right! Come along. I’ll take you to the road and come back. Hullo! What’s that?”

“It’s them!” exclaimed the lady.

It was. The pair dived back into the temple. On the opposite bank stood Millie Bushell, Mr. Vansittart, and Victor Sutton.

“Hullo, there, Charlie, you thief!” cried Victor. “Bring that canoe over here. Miss Bushell wants to get to the temple.”

“Hush! Don’t move!” whispered Agatha.

“But they know I’m here; they see that confounded canoe.”

“Charlie! Charlie!” was shouted across in three voices.

“What the devil–,” muttered Charlie.

“They mustn’t see me,” urged Agatha.

Victor Sutton’s voice rose clear and distinct,

“I’ll unearth him!” he cried. “I know the way round. You wait here with Miss Bushell, Merceron.”

“Oh, he’s coming round!”

“I must chance it,” said Charlie, and he came out of hiding. A cry greeted him. Victor was already started, but stopped. Charlie embarked and shot across.

“You villain! You gave us the slip,” cried Uncle Van.